Secrets
by jilyjackson
Summary: Bóta Camp is a camp for delinquents in Montana. The head counselors, Percy Jackson and Thalia Grace, see the delinquents as no more than slackers, unable to handle the reality of life. But what they are both about to discover is that every "delinquent" has a story, a secret, and a reason, and their stories will change the counselor's lives. A/U; rotating P.O.V. I don't own picture.
1. Annabeth

**A/N: I had this idea that Camp Half-Blood could be a delinquent camp in a different universe. It seemed that all the demigod powers- water control, fire control, lightning, etc.- could all be translated (with some difficulty, albeit) into delinquency. This is a story in an A/U with the ages and roles different but the gist of the story similar to Percy Jackson; just mortals and delinquency. Please R&R. Constructive crit****icism is appreciated. Thanks!**

**Rated 'T' for: suggestive adult themes; swearing; dark content**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. Or Heroes of Olympus. Or anything written by Rick Riordan. *hangs head sadly***

**Theme of Chapter One: The Help Soundtrack; Ain't You Tired, by: Thomas Newman**

* * *

_Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad._

_-_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

**-1-**

Annabeth Chase

**I stared out the bus window.**

My hands were clasped in my lap, knuckles white. I bit my lip, feeling a spurt of metallic blood come up into my mouth. I wiped it away distractedly, trying to ignore the general monotonous aura of gentle conversation and music leaking from headphones around the school bus. My eyes flitted over the dull, dry landscape, taking in the scrubby brush and brown, dusty roads. Cool air waved in through the windows; making me shiver in my thin fleece.

I had been on this bus for nineteen hours, twenty minutes, and forty-two seconds. I knew this because I had been timing the trip on my cellphone. It seemed interminable to me, taking me away from the only setting I could remember feeling safe in. Northeastern Montana was probably going to be a bit different from the cloudy skies of San Francisco. Somewhere, I heard my stepmother, Mara, saying to me: _"It's just __a boot camp. Your brothers have just been born, Annabeth. The least you can do is take yourself off my hands." _While I had started in protest, she had put up one elegant hand, crimson fingernails glittering in the filtered light of our apartment. _"I can't take care of babies and you. You're enough trouble as it is. Your father won't be around this summer, Annabeth Chase. The least you can do is show a little compassion." _I had been silent, standing there, my hands clasped tightly. I did owe Mara for the Incident.

Thus- here I was, sixteen years old, shivering in my flimsy clothes, wondering why on Earth I agreed to go to Bóta Camp in the middle of nowhere. From what little I had discerned from the brochure, the camp was a sort of boot camp designed with a classical theme. Mara had smiled expectantly when she told me this, as if thinking I would jump for joy when I heard it was classical. True, I loved Greek and Roman mythology, but it was still a boot camp. I was no athletic prodigy. Studies had almost always been a foremost thing for me, excepting only the Incident.

I gazed down at the pages of my book, wishing I could crawl inside the fine print and live there. The other people on the bus were giving me once-over looks, but they weren't friendly. In fact, they were almost the opposite, as if they were sizing me up. From the smirks on their faces, I didn't think I was much of a challenge. Then again, I had known that already. I prayed that sparring was not one of the requirements in this camp. I would never survive through the summer. My sanity barely held on after the Incident.

The bus driver- a crude, grizzly old man with graying hair- looked at us in the back mirror. "I'm goin' ta' get y'all off here," he said gruffly, adjusting his hat. "Be sure ta' get yer things ready."

I grimaced at his poor grammar, but did as he said, straightening my small duffel bag. Half of the bag was filled with books. I didn't think we were going to get a lot of downtime, but I came prepared, all the same. The camp probably wasn't going to have a library like my father's; it was more likely to have a weapons collection, but I never went away without at least three books. I brought seven with me, having read three on the bus ride here. Distraction, it seemed, was going to be a common theme in this summer.

Checking my phone for texts, I grinned when I saw one from my best friend, Nadia. We had been best friends since I first moved to San Francisco after the Incident, a few months ago, I supposed. Time flew after experiencing what I had seen and done.

**Are you there yet? ;)**

I sighed, looking out the window. Apparently, this camp was a bit more secluded then Mara let on. I was probably in danger of being mauled a la wild grizzly bear, but, then again, my cranky stepmother would probably love that. She saw me as the unpleasant little package that came along with Frederick Chase, the "love of her life". This camp was also a boarding school. I had no doubt she had ambitions of sending me away forever at this point.

_I wish, _I texted instead. _Stuck in the Middle of Nowhere, Montana. :/ What's up with you? It's really boring on this bus._

I pressed my fingertips against the frosted glass. Naturally, I was one of the only girls in the entire bus with an empty seat next to her. All the other compartments had teenagers- boys and girls alike- chatting amiably or even having staring contests. I barely repressed the urge to slam my head against the window. My phone buzzed.

**Yikes. Any good people to talk to? Seeing as how they're all going to a boot camp, probably by choice, there's got to be some interesting people. As for me…well. Spending June eighth in my cabin up in the woods. My father attempted to barbecue a skunk, I think, because it's smelling vile from where I'm camped up in my room. I NEED STORIES. CIVILIZATION DEPRIVATION IS NOT GOOD FOR ME.**

The corners of my mouth quirked up. I could completely picture Nadia's father, an "experimental chef" (emphasis on _experimental, _seeing as how he's actually a high school English teacher) turning a decapitated skunk on a spit suspended above a campfire.

_Oh, dear. That can't be healthy. You were sure to smuggle the potato chips in your bag, weren't you? And as for the interesting people- they reek of cigarettes and liquor. I think I'll pass, thanks for asking. _:[

I sniffed the air. It really _did _smell heavily of cigarettes and liquor, not that I was surprised. This camp was obviously a delinquent camp. It even said it on the front cover of the crinkled brochure that my stepmother had given me. When I had pointed it out, she had arched one plucked eyebrow, brown eyes glittering dangerously. _"It must be a typo." _That was all she had said, and I didn't press it any further. I wondered if Mara had made up a delinquent identity to go with my demeanor. With my checkered past, I had a marring scar. It would be nice not to have my counselors knowing what they would about me. The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.

**Well**[p3] **, _that _can't be good for you. Are you going to survive this camp? And yes, I did remember to smuggle potato chips. I ate them for breakfast and lunch.**

I grinned. It was the first time a true smile had breached my lips in the course of twenty-four hours. Surprisingly enough, it felt good.

_How about the pretzels? Did you remember to bring those? The whole "surviving" thing is still up for debate. I'm not sure Mara wants me to come home._

The bus driver scowled in the mirror. "Kids, ya'd better cut it out back there, else I'll be callin' to the camp to let em' give ya s'more chores to do than your weekly amount."

Heads swiveled to the back seat, where a white-blond haired boy and a pretty, thin brunette girl with considerable eye makeup on were kissing. My ears tinged pink as they huffed, the girl leaning into the boy. I tried to remember their names from when the bus driver called roll call this morning, and failed.

One boy laughed up from the front. "Jason and Reyna, kissing in a tree…" he sang, his tone light and laughing. Jason scowled, his blue eyes piercing, but it was nothing compared to Reyna's look. Her lips twisted into an ugly expression, her beauty quickly transforming into anger. No one else joined in. I assumed they were either too afraid of Jason and Reyna, mature enough not to join into the folly nursery rhyme, or just plain uncaring. My phone shook in my pocket.

**Oh. Pretzels. *kicks wall* Ok, I'm good now. God, I can't believe I forgot PRETZELS. UGH. And, by the way- don'****t be silly, dear. Miss Mara needs you around for Mr. Chase to have a need for his trophy wife, don't you worry.**

I sagged. Nadia was probably right. I could picture her calm, contrite face; all smooth, coffee-colored skin, warm, empathetic brown eyes, and full lips. Nadia was Hispanic, and beautiful at that. Her brown curls had this way of bouncing when she walked, to the point of comedy. I sighed, running a hand through my own rebellious golden curls. Mara was a trophy wife for the incredibly rich, incredibly famous Dr. Frederick Chase, whose original wife had died of cancer when his daughter was at an early age. Four years ago, my father and stepmother, who had been dating for another four years, were married. A month ago, my step-twins were born.

_Nice thought to think I'm the Wicked Witch of the West's failsafe, _I texted. When I was younger- eight years old, to be exact, when my stepmother and stepfather first started dating, I used to doodle Mara all over my notes with a green face and black dress on, calling her the Wicked Witch. As Mara continuously got nastier, the nickname stuck.

"Alright," the bus driver called. "We be pullin' in the camp now. Please take yer time ta enjoy the beautiful scenery. Notice them pretty trees and rolling hills. The –er- whatchamacallit camp is a beauty to behold." He said this with a dry, droning voice, and I got the sense the lines had been prewritten.

Across from me, a boy in the next seat snorted. I turned, raising an eyebrow. He smirked back. "Watcha lookin' at, smidge?" he said, his accent thick and heavy. I decided it was more a Bostonian accent than anything else.

I shrugged, turning my attention back to my phone. Passive-aggressive attitudes were probably best in these situations. Quickly, my fingers flitted over the keyboard, texting Nadia. _I'm at the camp. I've got to go- see you later._ My veins hummed in anticipation as I gazed out the window- and abruptly fell in dread. We drove past dusty, haphazard cabins set out. From what I could see, I counted twelve dilapidated structures set in the middle of a sparsely wooded area. We pulled up at a large, dusty-looking structure that might be able to be considered a house. It had a faint blue coat of paint on it that looked more gray than blue. To the side of the house was a large cabin- the mess hall, I supposed with a grimace. This was going to be a long summer; I could already tell.

The bus driver stood up, exposing his portly figure. "Alright. Yer to get off this here bus- y'all do know about the two an' a half month time, right?" There was a chorus of gum snapping, to which the bus driver nodded. "Alrighty then. With that brief speech- the head girls and boys cabin directors'll be waitin' for ya out there, all know-it-all an' such. I'll be back to take ya ta field trips and the like, but until then- get off my bus."

We stared at him.

"I said," the bus driver repeated slowly, in a calm, casual drawl, "git. Get off my bus. Now. Move yerselves out of my bus before I kick ya out. That's not what you want, do ya?"

The bus exploded in a flurry of motion. The rustling of bags fills the cramped area, and I hoisted my bag over my shoulder in one, smooth moment. As I gazed around to other people, I noticed that a large amount of them had several bags; some fancy and intricate. I watched in fascination as a tall, thin, beautiful girl with bronze skin and long, braided, choppy hair lifted up four different bags. It was no moral that kept me from packing a lot- it was more that I didn't want any of my nice things to get trashed while I was in the Middle of Nowhere, or MIN, as I will now be calling it, Montana. The boy across from me glared at me, a sharp scar standing out against his cheek. I wondered what fight he had been in to earn that.

The procession of kids- I estimated about forty- walked up to the front of the bus sluggishly, as if wading through molasses. I shrank in on myself, trying to make my body smaller. Not being noticed was of crucial importance in this camp. If my estimations were correct, the amount of boys and girls combined were forty. Split into two gender groups, that would make approximately twenty on each. Minus myself on the girl end, that would make approximately nineteen other girls that I was hiding from. As long as I stayed in the back, I could turn the numbers to my advantage, but the statistics still weren't looking great.

As I stepped off the bus, emerging from the cloud of toxic fumes and too much perfume that coated the bus, my first observation was that the camp was just as much of a dump from the ground. My second observation was that there were two very intimidating people standing before me.

The first was a tall woman- at least six and a half feet tall. She had milky skin; almost translucent, and wore all black, ripped-leather pants, a thin, slimming t-shirt in her already stick-thin body. Her feet had combat boots plastered with anti-government buttons on them; glinting in the overcast day. Black leather cuffs with spikes embellished on them glittered on her arms. She wore a thick layer of eyeliner around her piercingly blue eyes. Her lipstick matched her eyeliner. Her coal-black hair was put back into a bun; a few tendrils falling down to frame her face, pronouncing the slight hollows in her cheeks. A leather choker glittered at her neck. A cigarette dangled from her long, elegant fingers, and she brought it up to her lips, sucking in the smoke and breathing it out again. The woman was all angles, sharp and deadly. She couldn't have been more than eighteen- and she was the scariest person I had ever seen in my life.

The second was a man. He was even taller than the beautiful girl with the cigarette, with a mop of dark brown hair. Through his tight, faded-green t-shirt I could see the pronounced curves of his muscles. Unlike the scary girl, he seemed a bit more at ease, with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree, wearing denim. He was handsome, I had to admit that much, and like his comrade, his bright green eyes were piercing, but he seemed less scary, somehow. He seemed to be about the same age as the woman.

As soon as the cloud of delinquents had exited the bus, the man unhitched himself from the tree and walked over to us, eyes flitting over us coolly. The hubbub of general conversation increased, and the man opened his mouth, and said, in a slow, menacing drawl, "Hello."

The talking stopped. Never in my life had I ever seen anyone manage that so quickly and well. The man took a step forward, a smirk on his face. I began to detest him. "Welcome to Bóta Camp," he said. He began to stroll around. "Now, as head counselor of the boys, I would normally give you a nice, long speech." A chorus of groans echoed throughout the setting. "But," he continued, rising up a finger for emphasis, "this is not a normal camp." He stopped in his tracks, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "You are all delinquents. You've done something to end up here. My job is not to fill your head with shitty propaganda about how you can be something better and you just have to _try_." He gazed over the silent group, as if judging our reactions. "My job is to protect you from the situations you are going to get yourselves into. As delinquents, you make stupid choices and stupid decisions. Hence the boot camp. My goals for you aren't to become a nicer person. Yeah, that would be great, but it's not why you're here. You are here to maybe learn a little and figure out some ways to worm your way out of situations that lie in your future."

The girl next to him sighed over dramatically and removed the cigarette from her mouth, grinding it beneath her boot. "You know, Jackson, for all you like to preach about 'not making a long speech', you sure do like to talk." A ripple of snickers ran through the crowd. The girl raised an eyebrow at all of us. "He," she said, jerking a thumb towards the man, "is an insolent douche. His name is Percy Jackson and all boys will report to him. He likes to go about things in a roundabout way. Me? I like to cut to the chase. Simple is always better. My name is Thalia Grace. I'm the girl's counselor." She smiled slyly. "You will refer to us as whatever you want as long as it's not a swear word. Swear word name-calling is a privilege for counselors only." She got out another cigarette from the box in her back pocket, lighting it up with a match in her front pocket. "Any questions?"

Percy glared at her. "That was quite possibly the worst explanation I have ever heard, Grace."

Thalia shrugged and smiled, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "You did fine, sunshine. I just spoke in their language."

"I have a few choice things to say about that," he muttered, gazing at all of us. "Alright. Due to that _stellar _explanation of the camp, anyone have any legit questions they want to ask? Be warned, we do have sufficient consequences for fake questions, so think wisely."

No one said a word, but a thought crossed my mind. This was supposed to have had a classical theme, but so far, all I saw were dusty structures that looked like termite paradise. Timidly, I raised my hand, pushing it into the air. I gripped my duffle bag tightly.

Percy's eyes landed on mine. He studied me for a moment. "Yeah? Girl in the back?" he called. "You got a legit question?"

I swallowed. "Uh-," I said. Everyone's gaze swiveled toward me. I forged ahead. "Uh, yeah. I think so. Was this supposed to be a classical camp, or. Uh. Yeah. Just- it might be wrong, but-?"

Thalia arched her eyebrows. "Well, I'll be damned," she said.

Percy let out a short bark. "Someone read the brochure. Well, look around you, girl. Don't you just see the classical era radiating out?" He said this with a wry, bitter note, so I turned my head right and left. I scratched my neck.

"Uh. No?" I tried, unsure if it was a trick question.

He stepped closer. "Look. If you wanted a classical camp, then you've got one. We teach you classical fighting- both Greek and Roman. The cabins are in an omega symbol, each named for one of the major gods. Our director thinks it's funny to name himself Dionysus- for his overly fond love of Scotch, I should imagine- and to name his subordinate Chiron, after the hero trainer. Other than that? Nothing. Zip, zada, zero. If you wanted a classical camp, you should probably go run after that bus." I turned around, seeing that the yellow school bus had already driven off.

I shrank in on myself. "I'm- I'm sorry. Just wondering," I said quietly.

Percy just stared at me icily. "Yeah." He turned towards the rest of us. "To the rest of you delinquents, we've taken the liberty of assigning you cabins attributed to hobbies, grades, and appearances in accordance to Greek gods. Thalia will now put out the cigarette and stop smoking for long enough to read you the list."

Thalia took a drag from her cigarette, closing her eyes in peace. Percy cleared his throat. "I _said, _Thalia will now _put out her cigarette and stop smoking for long enough to read the list._" She snapped her head up in surprise.

"Who, me?" she said, feigning surprise, though whether or not it really came as a shock, I wasn't really certain. "Oh, come on. I just lit this cigarette!"

"For shame," Percy said drily. "Now put it out, get out the list from whichever pocket of those infernal jeans you've kept it in, and read it. Immediately. Else I'll tell Bach on one of his drunk rages that you chain-smoke in front of his campers."

Thalia glowered at him. "Fine." Muttering something underneath her breath, she took the cigarette out of her mouth, looking at it forlornly, and then stamped on it. She took a piece of crumpled paper out from her back pocket, and then, speaking in her low, slightly gritty voice, began to talk. "So, I guess, according to Mr. Jackson, JA supreme, I'm supposed to read this." She cleared her throat.

"Okay. So-" she glanced sideways at Percy. "Who in the hell is Zeus-slash-Jupiter?"

Percy raised his eyes to heaven. "The most. Famous. Greek or Roman. God. For the love of everything, Grace, this was seventh or sixth grade content. He is the god of lightning. He is the _king _of the gods, for Chrissakes."

Thalia nodded sagely. "Gotcha. So, in Zeus, there's a really itsy-bitsy list. It consists of- uh, only one person, actually. Jason Grace, please step forward. You're apparently in the Zeus cabin."

A tall boy stepped forward. I recognized him as the boy who had been making out with the other girl, Reyna. He smiled smugly, sauntering up. Thalia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, okay. Anyhow, next. Uh- no one in- Pawseedome slash Neptune." She looked at Percy. "What the hell?"

Percy looked like he wanted to bang his head against the tree. "Thalia, one of the campers could read this list better than you. It's Poseidon. God of the seas. Another very, very famous Greek or Roman god."

"But I thought that Triton was the god of the seas? You know, the muscly guy from all those videos and stuff? Wasn't he in the _Little Mermaid _or whatever, with the big pitchfork and white beard? Like- uh- what's his name- Dumblegore or whatever?" Thalia said in confusion.

We all stared at her. Percy opened his mouth and closed it, impersonating a fish. "Do you mean _DUMBLEDORE_?" he said, eyebrows nearly disappearing into the fringe of his hair.

Thalia snapped her fingers. "Yeah. Frumbledore. The wizard or whatever that helped the midget dude with the ring and the creepy fish guy and whatever. Tall, big staff, you know, all that jazz? Grumblesore?"

Percy closed his eyes. "Alright. At this point, you're mixing up _DUMBLEDORE _and _GANDALF_, you are comparing _POSEIDON, GREEK GOD OF THE OCEANS, _to a _DISNEY CARTOON KING, _and ruining some of the best literature of all time."

Thalia saluted him. "No prob. Okay, so no one's in Po-whatchamacallit. Next one is-" she stopped. "Wait. Hold up. Isn't Neptune that creepy green guy from Sponge Bob? You know, the one with the red beard?"

Percy blinked, and then held out a hand. "Give me the list, Grace."

"Hey!" Thalia protested. "What did I do to deserve that one?" I looked over at kids. They were staring, slack-faced at the exchange between the two counselors. I was torn between wanting to laugh and cry. There was no classical theme here, if at all.

"Just hand me the list, for Chrissakes!" Percy said, snatching it from her hand. He looked at all of us, running a hand through his hair. "I actually put a lot of effort into these lists, and I know that you'll probably move around to see which best accommodates you, but-" he huffed. "Just try. Hades slash Pluto: Bianca and Nico di Angelo, Hazel Levesque. Aphrodite: Selena Beauregard, Drew Tanaka, Piper McLean…" his voice trailed off, and I tuned out, stuffing my hands into my jeans pockets. "Athena," he said, and I rejoined into his train of words, "Annabeth Chase."

My heart stilled in my chest. Athena. Goddess of wisdom and battle strategy. That seemed laughable. _Strategy _was not exactly in my vocabulary, and neither was _wisdom. _Wisdom was a completely different thing from being smart. I swallowed, thinking of the Incident. Yes, wisdom was _very _different. As Percy's voice droned on, I snuck a glance at Thalia, who was shooting daggers at Percy with her eyes. I couldn't help but wonder if they knew my secret. There were probably others here with the same secret, and probably much worse.

For the life of me, to this day, I still cannot remember what the Incident was. The psychologist that my father and stepmother dragged me to had whispered to them that I had a 'mental roadblock'. She said it had been the effect of the traumatic stress that was placed on my shoulders. When I think, all I see is red, a deep, dark, guilty vermillion. I will not ever ask Mara or my father about it. Some things, I thought, will come to me when I am ready, and that may be never. Some things were better kept a secret.

"Head off to your cabins, then," Percy said suddenly, crinkling up the paper. "Hurry off. Breakfast in the mess hall at six A.M. sharp, please. First day of sparring is tomorrow. We'll split up into two groups; boys and girls. For now, go to your cabins. I trust you can read. Well," he amended, "most of you, anyway."

I bowed my head, looking toward the cabins. Kids began to move, causing another flurry of movement. Thalia lit yet another cigarette, launching into a heated debate about sea deities with Percy. As for me, I stood there, in the middle of the clearing, thinking about how I had pondered the Incident more in one day than I had in life. Your mind is funny that way. The checkers in your past seemed to align once every month, making your chest heavy and your heart sink. It seemed to be some divine force's way of reminding you that you had a secret.

Against my own will, my feet began to move. I started to walk toward my cabin- cabin number six- until a hand went in front of me. To my surprise, I looked up right into the eyes of Percy Jackson. A million thoughts went through my mind then, and I received an unpleasant flashback from my past.

_A dark, enclosing silence, and then a breath, first slowly, then rapidly…_

I sucked in a breath. "W-wh-what do y-y-ou want?" I said, my voice trembling. Some part of me loved that my mind was weak. The other part of me loved it. I hated it and I cherished it at the same time, an oxymoronic state of my fragile sanity.

Percy gazed at me. "My name," he said slowly, "is Percy. Not 'you', for God's sake. I hate being addressed like some random person on the street." He stared at me, as if unsure of what he wanted to do, and then stuck out his hand. My eyes darted back and forth. Percy laughed bitterly. "You look a deer stuck in the headlights. You can shake my hand; I'm not going to hurt you." Cautiously, I stuck my hand out, and he shook it. Percy had a good handshake; firm and complete. "Christ," he said, looking down at my now retracted hand. "Your fingers are freezing."

I shrank back. "Sorry," I mumbled to the ground. _The floor beneath me felt grounded; secure, and I plastered my feet to it, wishing I could sink and fall away, down through the Earth… _I pushed back the memories, willing them to float away. I couldn't handle my past. I was not a strong enough person.

Percy arched an eyebrow. "Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Icy fingers aren't necessarily a binding sin, you know." My chest tightened at this, and I looked down at the ground. The grass had somehow become extraordinarily interesting. "Look," Percy finally said. "You really weren't here for a classical camp, were you?"

No. I was here because Mara didn't want my influence on her pure children. I couldn't blame her, really, because whatever the Incident was, if it was bad enough to move halfway across the country, it was marring. "No." I said the word shortly; curtly, wishing this man would walk away.

Percy let out a long exhale. "I didn't think so. All the same, you're a scholar, aren't you? I've seen your grades. You don't seem like a criminal to me. You don't have a record." Not that he could see, at least, my mind insisted. I hadn't the faintest idea of what happened, and I didn't want to relive it. Not in the slightest.

I nodded to the ground. "Yes," I said, turning my head up. Percy stood a few feet away from me, gazing at me intently. "Yes. I'm scholar," I stated more clearly. "Of a sort, anyhow." I doubted anyone would take me in for a job after what I had done.

Percy nodded, as if absorbing this information. "Well- if you want, anyway- I do have some classical literature and such in my office. If you ever wanted to see it. If you wanted a classical camp, I can simulate one for you. I thought I was going to this camp to teach too, at first. I wasn't really sure how I was going to manage that, though. I'm not really the sharpest tool in the box." He smiled wryly.

I concentrated on the floor. "Maybe sometime," I said finally, picking out a cricket hopping in the grass. My eyes moved with its body. _Hop, hop, rest, hop. Hop, hop, rest, hop. _

"Oh. Well- anytime, if you want an assignment, let me know." Percy shoved his hands into his jean pockets, probably expecting an answer. My tongue felt twisted; impaired.

_The atmosphere suddenly seemed a thousand times warmer, and my knees buckled, making me want to collapse into the solid, firm ground… _I swallowed. That was enough flashbacks for one day. I supposed that he expected an answer, but he didn't get one. I had enough going on my life. Eventually, there was the rustle of leaves as Mr. Percy Jackson walked away.

I lifted my head up, finding only a few kids loitering around. Feeling a pair of eyes on me, I turned, almost jumping a few inches when I saw Thalia looking at me cryptically. She had a cigarette dangling from between her long fingernails, and was looking me over skeptically. Pursing her lips, Thalia let out a long, charcoal streak of smoke into the air. She narrowed her eyes at me, grimacing at the cigarette butt in her hands, and then let it drop to the ground. I watched as the piece of steaming carcinogen fell to the ground, bouncing once on the yellow grass, and took in Thalia's boot as it crushed the cigarette, grinding it into smithereens.

Even as I walked away, I felt her eyes on my back, watching my every move.

* * *

**I knocked gingerly on the door of cabin six.**

It had taken no small amount of determination to find the door. To my surprise, the cabins were not so termite-haven as they had seemed from afar. Their curb appeal was not stellar, that much was true; but they were sturdy, relatively new structures. I regarded them with a critical eye, wondering what a patented track beam would look like in place of the wide flange beam.

The door squeaked open, admitting a tall boy. He had glasses that took up half of his face, jeans, and a hoodie on. Sandy-blond hair cropped up on his head. He grinned goofily, sticking out a hand. "Hello. You're an Athenian as well, then?" he said, his voice cracking in pitch several times. He looked to be about a year younger than me.

I shook it cautiously. "Uh- yes. Yes, I suppose I am an Athenian," I said slowly, wishing that people would stop with the handshakes. Physical contact made me uncomfortable.

He dimpled, holding the door open for me. I crouched, walking inside, as the boy led off a stream of endless chatter. "Oh, that's cool. People are saying this is the nerd cabin, but that's okay with me. People are always saying that _I'm _a nerd. I don't think it's fair that other people consider me to be geeks _now_. I mean, nobody thought Socrates was a DB, right? Oh, and I'm Malcolm, by the way, but my friends mostly call me M. Well, they would if I had any friends, at least."

I stared at this small, awkward little boy with the grey eyes unsettlingly like my own. He pushed up his glasses, his smile widening even further, and I noticed he had braces. Poor kid. "Hi," I said quietly. "My name is Annabeth. Annabeth Chase." I looked around the cabin, taking in the low ceiling. Despite the cramped space, it was, of a sort, homey. A huge window occupied the back wall of the room that we were in, and I saw fields outside, yellowish-brown, and overcast skies. Shelves were filled wall-to-wall with books, and desks and laptops glued to the tables were available. Beanbags and swivel chairs were everywhere, and, as I gazed up, I saw that there was a small, cramped loft-space above the bookshelves for reading. About two kids were milling around in the room. Everything smelled of new wood, pungent and clean. Behind me, the wooden door was shut, locked up tight by M. To the left and right, there were curtains, and above each set of curtains was a sign, reading either _Girls _or _Boys._

"By the way, dinner tonight is in our dormitories," M continued, jabbering on. "If we're really hungry, we can go down to the mess hall to fetch some food, but otherwise-," he shrugged. "Just get to sleep, I suppose."

I nodded, smiling gratefully. "Thanks, M," I said. His cheeks reddened at me using his nickname. "I think I'll just get some sleep for tonight. Thanks for all your help." M nodded eagerly, and I crossed over the stairs, pushing aside the curtain carefully.

Once inside the girl's dormitory, I looked around it, appraising it. Unlike the main area, it had no windows, thank God, but instead had wooden twin beds, all lined up neatly in a row. They could all be identical. I counted twenty-four on both sides, three of which were occupied. I set my things down in the corner, breathing in the scent of new. At the foot of the bed, there was a chest and a key. Twisting the key in the lock, I heaved open the empty chest.

Sighing, I brushed a tendril of hair out of my eye. I hefted my duffel bag over to the end of the bag and unzipped it. I grimaced at my meager supply of clothes, setting my shoulders in resolve. I cautiously folded my shirts, cardigans, shorts, and jeans into my chest, piling my books on top of my clothing. As soon as I had finished, I folded up my duffel bag, placing it under the bed. After I had unpacked everything, I locked the chest up tight. Only one thing remained on my bed: my diary. The fourteen-dollar moleskin diary had been worth every cent, I thought, as I climbed onto my bed and opened my gel pen.

With a deep breath, I laid back against the soft, cottony pillows, and began to write.

* * *

June 8, 2012

Dear Diary,

I have never really known the meaning of "delinquent" until now. It has always been a relative, slightly-offensive word to me. Today, I realized that "delinquents" included me. Much as I don't like to admit it, I am a delinquent. Even my father seems to think so- after all, he gave his trophy wife, Mara, permission to send me away. That has to mean something. As far as I know, I think my father loves me, though I am not quite sure. It is difficult to be certain of anything anymore.

I started thinking about the Incident again today. I suppose it was being in the crowd, among all of the people smacking gum and listening to heavy metal music that really set me thinking. Was I a delinquent? I had straight 'A' grades. I was a goody-two-shoes (well, in San Francisco, at least). Those didn't seem like delinquent traits to me, but, then again, I've never really been very certain. After all, what would I know? I hardly remember any of high school. It's as if I have a massive roadblock in my mind, like my psychologist said. The Incident should probably be left alone. That was my thought before. But now I've gone to thinking it would be better to understand what happened, purely for peace of mind. It would be good to know.

Peace of Mind. It's a funny phrase, I think, a very physically mental thing. The world, as I am coming to believe, is full of contradictory, oxymoronic things. I no longer understand what to think. The only friend I have here is Nadia, and she is miles and miles away, practically across the country with her creative father in Oregon. I miss Nadia, Diary. I miss Dad, when he was home. I miss my bedroom, and I'm almost missing Mara a little, I think. It's just the unfamiliarity that's getting to me. I hope, at least. I really shouldn't be missing Mara. Or her crazy sons who kept me up in the night.

Today, I was on a bus. For a very, very long time. And in that time I read books and texted Nadia. I did not make friends- I was too intimidated to do so. Now, I am wondering if that was a mistake. For the most part- excepting Malcom, or M, as I shall refer to him in here and otherwise, the kids seem pretty scary and tough. It might have been good to make allies. Note to self: MAKE FRIENDS TOMORROW.

It's not just the kids who seem a bit sketchy, either. Even the bus driver seemed a bit testy, and that's nothing compared to the counselors. The girl, Thalia, MY instructor, is completely bonkers. I think she might've gone to this camp herself. She's a bit scary looking, with all the black leather- she looks like she belongs in one of those fifties movies with the bikes and hair grease. I've learned not to judge by appearances, and due to her outbursts regarding Greek and Roman gods today, I'm inclined to think that she is not so fearsome. Percy, the other instructor, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. He seemed nice enough, but now I am not so sure. Diary, there is no classical literature- did you know that? Mara was practically lying, though I knew that bit already- and Percy scowled at me when I brought it up. After the long, nonverspeech (is that a thing? A nonversation is a thing, so I suppose a nonverspeech must be as well), he called me up, offering to assign me projects. It was an exciting prospect, but I'm not sure if I'm ready, Diary. I'd like to get relaxed before I start gallivanting off, going into classical literature.

All the same, I think I'd like to read some of Homer's work, but not right away. I like to have a routine. I am stuck in this place for two and a half months, anyway. I think there'll be enough time for me to read and assess later, but for now, I think I'll stick with finding out the daily routine. It sounds like we ARE going to be sparring, much to my chagrin. Though the cabins are cleaner and newer and the kids in my own dwelling not quite as frightening as the rest, I am a bit homesick. I don't want MIN, Montana; I want San Francisco, California. I want to be taking trips down to Monterey with Nadia, just like we promised ourselves.

The troubles on my hand are fivefold. First: I am worried that I am a delinquent. Second: I am worried about the Incident, and the content of the Incident. Third: I am awfully homesick. Fourth: I am concerned about the types of fearsome people here and my merging in with the ultimately sketchy crowd. And, finally, fifth: I am worried about the assignments regarding classical literature and such. Diary, I am a mess. Thank you for listening anyway.

Sincerely,

Annabeth D. Chase

* * *

**I placed a bookmark on the page.**

Talking to my diary always made me feel better, no matter the circumstances. My fingers brushed over the creamy pages lightly, barely skimming the ink. I blew on the paper, letting the pen marks dry, and then, softly, closed the diary. Taking the key out from the pocket of my jeans, I walked over to the chest. Unlocking it carefully, I placed the diary at the bottom of my chest, buried underneath the mounds. I click the lock back into place, and then curled up on my bed.

My thoughts were somewhat at peace after writing in my journal. I stared out at the rows of beds. My heartbeat slowed, my breathing became deep and even, and, finally, my eyelids grew heavier. I closed them, letting myself fall into a deep, peaceful abyss of sleep.

Tomorrow, I will face the mess hall, Percy, and Thalia, the chain-smoker. But for tonight, I can sleep, still and at peace.


	2. Leo

**A/N: I'm back with a new chapter! Thanks for the reviews! This chapter is going to be a little slow, but it will be one of the only ones that is. Soon, we're going to be getting into the love plot and the Unraveling of the Secrets (dun dun dun!). I'm excited for the next chapter, and I hope you guys are too. On a side note, a lot of the chapters are going to be in different points of views, as each camper has a secret. They're all going to be revealed at some point- Annabeth's secret probably last- but not all at once. With that in mind, I hope you enjoy the (slightly boring) chapter!**

**Rated 'T' for: suggestive adult themes; swearing; dark content**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing- except for a laptop on which I have written this story. *wallows in shame***

**Song/Theme for Chapter Two: Chocolat Soundtrack; Main Title; by: Rachel Portman**

* * *

_Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets._

-Paul Tournier

* * *

**-2-**

**Leo**

I surveyed the mess hall with distaste.  
It is precisely six o' clock A.M. When I arrived at the camp yesterday, full of jet-lag from my flight into San Francisco from Houston and then again from carsickness due to the lilting stop-start driving of the bus, I had estimated about forty students. Percy, the boy's instructor, had told us to arrive at precisely six o' clock today in the mess hall. At this point, I count seven people present at the long, splintery tables in the low-ceilinged cafeteria. Three of them are at the table marked 'ATHENA' in neat, precise capital letters; a scrawny boy, a pretty girl around a year older than I was consumed in writing in some sort of book, and burly boy, asleep in his mush. Another boy is sitting at the table marked 'JUPITER/ZEUS'. I recognized him from the previous day- he had short, white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. I knew him well enough. His name was Jason Grace, and he was leader of the juvie spectacles. From what I had heard, he was dangerous. I made a mental note to stay away from him. Even at this unearthly hour of the morning, he looked alert and perceptive. One more boy sits at a table marked 'MARS/ARES', and finally, another girl sits at a table marked 'BELLONA'. The girl was beautiful, with a long, lithe, athletic body, though I knew to stay away from her. The girl was involved with Jason, and both were known for animal-like ferocity. I strolled into the tables, plastic bowl full of a mushy, green sludge, taking a seat at the 'HEPHAESTUS/VULCAN' table. Unwrapping my plastic spoon from its wrapper, I carefully took a bite of the lukewarm porridge, making a face at the sour taste.  
I had eaten worse, of course. In my many escapades from foster homes, I had often gotten stranded on the road, out of food far too quickly. One of my running-away trips when I was thirteen had eventually led me back to Aunt Rosa's apartment in the slums of Houston. By that point, Abuela had been the only person who Rosa had failed to corrupt with my aunt's lies. While my other family members had spat on me and cursed behind my back- or, often, directly in front of me- Abuela had smiled a crooked, yellow-toothed smile, accepting as always. I had been smoking at the time, and after a particularly heated argument with Rosa, I had taken a walk away from the apartment, going to a nearby park. I climbed a tree easily, my small frame allowing for balance on the smaller branches, and smoked three cigarettes.  
When I returned home, only Abuela was present at the apartment. She had given me a suspicious look; her nose being like a bloodhound, and stuck out a palm. When I looked at her in confusion, she had sighed exasperatedly and said in her sweet, lilted accent, "Give the cigarrillos to me, nieto. I know you have them. I smell them on you like bad perfume." I had shuffled around awkwardly, and Abuela had narrowed her eyes. "The little chico no want to give up his cigarillos? He think he is not going to die from them?" She had grabbed my chin with her long, spindly fingers. "Your abuelo and bisabuelo died from the cigarillos, nieto. Give them to Abuela." Still, I had squirmed uneasily, unwilling to give up my treasure. Abuela had gotten a glint in her eye. "Ay. Still no?" She had put her hands on her hips, bony fingers standing out against her floral skirt. "Fino. Then sit down at table, chico, and we see if you really a big chico." I had sat down at Rosa's kitchen table warily, watching Abuela's every move. To my surprise, she had slapped down a pack of expensive cigars. They smelled pungent in the air, wrapped in a golden leaf. I would have enjoyed them more if I had not already smoked three cigarettes. Instead, the scent made me queasy instead of anticipant. "Smoke the cigarillos. All of them," Abuela had growled. "And finish your first pack, too. Then we shall see who is the chico and who is the hombre here, nieto."  
I had done as she asked. Abuela went outdoors to Rosa's scrubby terrace, decorated with a few cracked pots growing some sort of illegal plant, no doubt, and a rusting metal balcony. She had pulled up an old, cracked pool chair and watched me, her eyes boring. Cautiously, I took out a cigar and put it to my lips, lighting it with a match sitting on the ashtray on the kitchen table. I got to the second-to-last cigar in the box before I threw up, all over my Aunt Rosa's 'fancy carpet' that she had purchased at a flea carpet for seven dollars and forty-two cents. Needless to say, she insisted that the carpet cost one hundred seven dollars and forty-two cents. I worked at an after-school job just to pay off that debt. After I hurled all over my Aunt Rosa's carpet, I wiped my mouth miserably. Abuela came back into the apartment, graying hair wavering slightly in my blurred vision. She had patted my back, helping me up. After she laid me down on the couch with a woolen blanket, she had whispered in my ear with her eyes twinkling, "Still a chico, nieto. Do not be so hasty to grow up. You only get one life on this Earth before you are given to the skies," she had said, pointing a bony finger to the ceiling. "Enjoy your childhood while it lasts, nieto." She then proceeded to pull the blinds down, tucking the blanket under my chin gently. Since that one fateful autumn day, I have never smoked another cigarillo in my life. I ate nothing more that trip but chicken broth and water for my sore throat. It sounded gritty as gravel for nearly two weeks afterward.  
I put the spoon in my mouth, blowing on the porridge lightly. Even though the mush was nothing but room temperature at the very best, it was a habit of mine. Foster mothers had a tendency to cook food very, very hot. One learns that the white, puffy streams of mist coming up from the corn like a mushroom cloud should generally be cooled down. I unscrewed the cap on my water bottle, taking a sip of the metallic-tasting water. Stop it, Leo, I scolded myself in my head. No, it's not a gourmet meal- but what do you expect? A five-star hotel and restaurant? In reality, I really didn't expect much of anything. After the stunt that I pulled off, I was lucky not to be locked up in juvie for the rest of my days as a childhood. I grimaced, thinking of Abuela's expression if she saw me now: a delinquent, hunched over at some half-witted attempt to propagandize a camp with a Roman and Greek theme. Abuela had died one year ago, passing away five days before Christmas. Of course, I didn't find out until a few months later- Rosa and I weren't exactly on the best of terms. I was fourteen at the time, having run away yet again. Rosa had admitted me back into her universe with a snarl. When I inquired where Abuela was, she shot me a dirty look, informing me that Abuela had died nearly four months earlier. That was the day the last of my true family died.  
Swallowing the porridge with some difficulty, I took into account the people sitting at their tables. Reyna, the Bellona girl, was sharpening a knife at her table with a pebble. Her dark brown hair was braided in one straight plait down her back, shimmering in the dim lighting. The screech of metal as the rock impacted the knife hurt my ears. I didn't know much about Reyna; just that she was a delinquent like the rest of us, and especially skilled in fighting.  
Jason sat at the Jupiter/Zeus table, staring pensively out into space. I knew Jason a little better than I knew Reyna. From what I heard, he was somewhat of the star boy in the bus. Apparently, he had some celebrity mom with an open marriage, creating problems for him. He had been through it all, as far as I heard; he was even left at a bar alone when he was three years old. He looked the part of a celebrity's son, but that was where the similarities stopped. At nine years old, he had been assigned a lax au pair. Combined with a few wrong friend decisions in middle school and high school, he was your typical delinquent. I felt no pity for him. We didn't choose our paths in life, but we did choose how to live them. I was a hypocrite for even suggesting the thought, but Jason had it a hell of a lot better than most of us.  
Over at the Mars/Ares table, a large, pudgy Chinese boy sat. He was twiddling his thumbs absentmindedly. I picked out the burly muscles in his shirt and winced. With his camouflage shirt, cargo shorts, and dog tag, it wasn't hard to see why he was at the god of war's table. The boy was obviously part of the militia, though he couldn't have been much older than fifteen or sixteen- my age. I wondered what this boy had done, and whether or not I should be afraid of him.  
Finally, at the Athena table, I picked out the girl writing furiously in the book. She was pretty, with golden curls and stormy gray eyes. A scrawny boy with glasses that consumed half of his face was sitting next to her, jabbering on. With some surprise, I noticed that Percy had entered the mess hall. He was watching the girl, the muscles in his jaw tight. My eyes flicked back and forth between the instructor and the girl. I wondered if they had any history together. The friction radiating off of the counselor seemed to suggest it, but the indifference coming off the girl suggested otherwise. I shoved the absurd suggestion aside. It couldn't be true.  
The door creaked open, admitting a blast of cool air. Fascinated, I watched as the girl instructor, Thalia, waltzed in. To be completely honest, the Goth vampire girl scared me. To be fair, I had seen my share of black leather jackets and spiked motorbike gloves, but this girl was on a whole different level. She was smart, I could see that much. As she took of her leather jacket, I noticed that she had a tattoo of angel wings just above the cut of her halter top. Her arms, too, were completely tattooed in black, spiraling designs. Her boots clicked on the floor as she walked over to sit by Percy at the counselor's table. Heaving herself up onto the laminate tabletop, she brought a pack of cigarettes out onto her boot. Eyes half-lidded, she pulled one out of the box.  
Percy snatched it away from her. "I don't think so, Betty Rizzo," he said, snapping the box shut. "I tolerate it practically everywhere else, but you are under no circumstances going to smoke a cigarette at six ten in the morning, especially in the mess hall. You're only serving to encourage the campers."  
Thalia yawned, running a hand through her ratty hair. "Half of them smoke anyway, you know that, right?" She rubbed her eyes like a child. I was struck by how much her personality differed from her general appearance. "Who the hell is Betty Rizzo, anyway?"  
"Grease," Percy said flatly. "Leader of the Pink Ladies." He made a face. "I'd like to make an obscure movie reference every once in a while. You make that next to impossible with your addled brain. I blame it on the cigarettes, though God knows what else you get into with your spare time."  
Thalia stretched. "Sunshine, you should know by now that my brain is far gone. Stop trying to save it already." She smirked, gesturing around the room. "Big turnout, I see, by the way." Thalia saluted Percy. "All aboard the failure train!"  
Percy scowled. "Trust me, they're going to show up tomorrow. They'll have to. Just trust me on that one." His face morphed into something akin to grim satisfaction. "They'll show up. Most of them, probably early."  
"Oooooh," Thalia said, waving her hands in mock-terror. "What is the big, bad Percy going to do to them? Talk them to death with his pathetic philo-watchamacallits? I'm terrified!"  
Percy glowered at her. "I'm going to give them all a psychology meeting at noon. I'll drag them out of their cabins, sit them down, and make them listen to every single word. They're going to have to talk about their problems in front of everyone else. This includes the people present, by the way. One person skips a day of work, they all get the treatment. That's my philosophy thus far, anyhow."  
Thalia froze. "Jackson, you wouldn't. Some of these kids have really intense problems. You can't just make them talk about their issues in front of everyone. That would be terrible!"  
"Oh, really? And you would know this because… oh, that's right! You have your own little secret," Percy said, narrowing his eyes as Thalia paled. "You're not innocent, either, like some of these kids are. I would recommend shutting your mouth and thinking through your next sentence before proceeding. Though these kids may not like the psychology, it's necessary. You would have been better off with some help too, you know."  
"So would you," Thalia shot back. "Oh, dear. Is that a bruise I see on your cheekbone? Was it Mommy or Daddy again, or one of Mommy's other lovers?" A heavy silence followed this. The tension rising in the room was palpable, a real, tangible thing. I shuddered, wondering what was going to follow.  
Percy slapped Thalia across the face. The sharp crack ran out through the mess hall as all kids swiveled towards the furious counselors. Percy's eyes were burning holes through Thalia, who was sporting a red welt on her cheek. I could have named countless girls who would have shied away from this confrontation, but Thalia was not one of them. With a narrowing of her eyes, she jutted her knee up into his crotch. Percy doubled over, gasping, and Thalia kicked him to the ground. "You son of a bitch," she said, pulling his arms behind his back. "You are not the only person with problems here, and that certainly doesn't give you the right to hit me!" She panted, slamming down the heel of her high-heeled boot onto his back. "You do not touch me, do you understand?" Percy groused, and Thalia released him, kicking him once in the side for good measure. Unlike the other girls I could have named, Thalia looked more furious than hurt. It gave me a new respect for this biker girl, whoever she was. It also gave me a new observation: these two had a history.  
I thought back to what Percy had said about the psychology. I wasn't sure about other kids, but I didn't prefer to tell my life's story to some shrink and a crowd of gum-snapping, cigarette-smoking, liquor-drinking bozos who couldn't care less. I would have to start at the very beginning, after all, when I was four years old and my father, a well-known mechanic, was crippled in a car accident- the car being driven by his mother. After that, the funny, laughing man that I vaguely remembered in blurry wisps turned into a different father entirely. While my hardworking, beautiful mother worked her ass off trying to provide for me, my father lounged on the couch, nursing a can of beer and shouting at football games in drunken slurs. When I was six, he died, jumping from a bridge downtown. When my mother got the call, she was only mildly surprised that her husband had committed suicide. He was no longer the kind, caring, world-renowned mechanic Heff; he was a shadow of the man with a crippled leg and beer gut. After that, my mother and I were both relieved, of a sorts, to hear that he was dead. It was a terrible thing to be relieved about it, but it didn't change our view. After that, it was just Esperanza Valdez and her little boy in the mechanic shop.  
Then came the fire. My secret, tucked inside my emotions, hidden by humor. After all, humor is the best way to hide the pain. The succession of foster homes and uncertainty that followed gave me hell. I was never a normal little boy, and I sure as hell was never going to say my secret out loud to anyone. To admit that my Aunt Rosa in all her slathered makeup and slutty tops was right would be to swallow poison. In all my seven years since the fire, I had never actually said out loud what happened- or what I did after. It seemed far too gruesome, and though my list numbered only a few, they seemed like deep gouges in my skin, imprinted like a tattoo. It was as if I was branded into the life of delinquency forever.  
Percy hefted himself off of the ground, glaring at Thalia. "Was that really necessary?" he asked, his eyes murderous. He brushed debris off of his black t-shirt and jeans. In the back of my mind, I wondered how he could stand wearing short sleeves in the frigid weather.  
Thalia met his gaze unflinchingly. Her fingers twitched, as if itching for a cigarette. She finally settled for shoving her hands into the pockets of her biker jacket. "Yes," she answered coolly, "it was. What was that old saying again…" she smiled, a small curve of her lips. "Like father like son?"  
Percy widened his eyes. It was not a threatening dilation, but rather a deer caught in the headlights look. He brushed past Thalia heavily, shifting his body weight into her, and muttered something inaudible from my position. Thalia smirked, crossing her arms, and I wondered distantly just what Percy's secret was. He stormed out the door, slamming the door shut behind him. It closed with a loud bang, echoing throughout the cafeteria.  
Every delinquent had a secret. It was their reason. Even the pretty, studious girl with the charcoal eyes had a secret. It is something you hold close to your heart, lest someone discover it and change your life forever. The secrets are ones that we learn to live with, blemishes on our past. They will forever be present, haunting you every day for the rest of your life, compressing your chest and making it impossible to breathe when you think of it. Every kid here has a secret. It is their most closely guarded treasure. And, at least for my part, I will never succumb to Percy Jackson's psychology. I didn't know what Thalia said to him, but so long as it kept us from being sent to a shrink, I was at peace.  
Thalia turned to all of us, grabbing a rotting pear from where it sat in a wicker basket on the counselor's table. In one, swift, deft flick of her wrist, she brought her pocket knife out of her jacket and began to slice the pear into slivers. "So you're the delinquents," she finally said. It took me a moment to realize she was addressing us. "How… interesting."  
"Interesting?" Jason said, the first of us to respond. The blond girl with the diary had placed a bookmark between the pages, eyes alight with curiosity. "What an interesting word for it."  
Thalia's lips thinned at Jason's words. "Well, as long as Captain Jackass left for the time being, I say we play a game," she said, picking up a thin pear slice and popping it into her mouth. She put the knife down, lifting herself onto the table. "Like- oh, I dunno, a getting to know each other function. Where we're from, our favorite hobby, blah blah blah. It doesn't have to be some psycho's idea of rehab, don't worry." She said the last sentence with a dark look in the door that Percy had stormed out of.  
Finally, Reyna spoke up. "A game?" she repeated dubiously. "A game? Who do you think we are, five-year olds? What are we going to play, show-and-tell?"  
"Nah, like I said, a getting to know each other game," Thalia said, brushing off the comment. "If you'd like, I could start. We'll name… where we're from, what our favorite food is, and what our favorite color is. It's not kindergarten, but it is a camp, so," she said, shrugging. "Might as well get into the whole 'counselor' thing."  
We stared at her. Everything about her was contradictory. She was a chain-smoking, motorcycle-riding, black-leather wearing heartless wench, and yet, here she was, making normal conversation after kicking her equal in the crotch. I wasn't entirely certain what to make of her.  
Thalia sighed. "Fine. I'll go first. So- I grew up in Hollywood, California, before I ditched my family and eventually wound up in social services. They gave me to Long Island care-" at this, my eyes widened. She had gone all the way from Hollywood to Long Island?- "and yes," Thalia said, catching our looks, "I did backpack all the way across the country. A couple of kids helped me lodge and stuff, so I was alright, but the social bitches eventually found me." She said this all casually, every once in a while munching on a pear strip. "My favorite food would probably have to be Doritos. I practically lived on Doritos for a while. And my favorite color is black, obviously. Next person, go ahead."  
We looked at her blankly.  
She sighed exasperatedly. "Fine. I'll choose who can go next." Her eyes flit around us, and her lips pinch together tightly, forming a thin, white line. "Girl with the book. Tell us."  
The pretty girl with the charcoal eyes startled, looking up with her mouth agape. "What?" she said, her voice lilting slightly. "Me?" Thalia nodded, gesturing with her hands to go on. The girl looked around, eyes wide, and then, in a small, trembling voice, "Me." The one, monosyllable hung on the air heavily as the atmosphere dropped several degrees. My knees bounced impatiently under the table as the girl repeated, "Me" as if it were some incantation to God or a foreign word she had never once spoken in her life. On the fourth "Me" Thalia stopped her, heaving herself over the table.  
"Yes, we've figured out that," she said, tossing her pear behind her at the wall. It clunked a few feet away from one of the food lines. "This isn't rocket science. Name, where you're from, favorite food, favorite color. For the love of Christ."  
The girl nodded, seeming to shrink in on herself. "Okay. M-my name is Annabeth, then. Annabeth Chase."  
"Yes, thank you, Forrest, Forrest Gump," Thalia said sarcastically. "Any day now would be nice. We haven't all summer; just a few minutes before Mr. Know-it-All comes back with his fancy-shmancy words and stupid ideas."  
Annabeth nodded. "I- I grew up in Virginia. Then I moved to San Francisco." At this, she pursed her lips, her face taking on a pensive, thoughtful expression. Thalia rolled her eyes as Annabeth slowly went on. "My favorite food would probably have to be…" she hesitated. "Spaghetti."  
Spaghetti. The word hung in the room heavily, as if floating on air. It is a mundane word, bringing up early images of my mother and I, eating at a local Italian restaurant before she died. It is funny, I thought, how it took so long for me to remember anything before the day she died. It was as if she ceased to exist the day that she was buried into the soft, wet soil, existing no more. Slowly, as I began to reach out of my shell, I saw the what she used to be Before. A beautiful woman, full of life and curly brown hair, instead of a lifeless, waxy body, encased into a coffin, slowly being lowered into the Earth. There is an old saying my mother used to tell me, "We begin from the Earth and then we return. It is the way of the religions." I had furrowed my three-year old eyebrows at this. "Religions?" I had asked. My mother had nodded, ruffling my hair with affection. "Si, mi hijo. Religions. Your abuela thinks there is only one, and I believe in only one, but does that make it true? There are many kinds of gods, but they all begin from something. That is Earth, hijo. We begin with the Earth and then we return. It is the way of life." From that day on, it seemed as if she were lost in Earth forever- until, one day, I was at brunch with foster family number three. At the booth next to us, I saw a woman spooning honey into her tea, great big spoonfuls. She looked nothing like my mother- she was white, fat, and American- but, just for a moment, in the place of her eyes were my mother's. I saw my mother again, looking at me with that little smile, and thought about how she was brought back to the Earth. Death would always be controversial. That was how it had been since the earliest cavemen. Life, however, was not. I didn't believe that nonsense about how someone never truly dies if their memory lives on. A legacy, perhaps, but not a memory. People survive when they are living. And after they die, and are returned to the Earth once more, new people are born again. Sometimes, in brief, small snatches, I remember my mother. And then she is gone. A shout into the void, forever echoing and ricocheting off the walls. That is what life is. In the slightest mundane word, such as spaghetti, you can transform into Socrates, pondering the meaning of life. Life is strange. It is unexpected. It will always have potholes and bumps and God knows what else. But for now, it is a windy path, returning at the simple word spaghetti. And that's okay. Roads aren't straight. They aren't perfect. They are windy, just like spaghetti.  
"My favorite color is-" Annabeth continued. I came back to the present, returning for the riveting news of Miss Annabeth Chase's favorite color. "Well, I suppose it would have to be green."  
Just then, there was a whoosh at the opening of a door. Percy came in, eyes livid. He glared at Thalia, as if daring her to speak a word, and then turned around, gesturing to the swinging, laminate wood door with grand hand movements. "Well?" Thalia said expectantly. "I do hope that you've cooled off a bit. You're interrupting the getting-to-know-you game."  
Percy was interrupting- and I was glad. I knew what my answers would be, short, curt, and clipped: Leo Valdez. Houston, Texas. Tacos. Red. I would be the boy in the corner, the one who, at one point, had been a funny boy, full of laughter, until I was sentenced to prison in some town in Montana. I supposed I would become the funny boy again, if I could dig him somewhere up in my emotional sludge of never-ending problems.  
"Not in the slightest," Percy said, his voice becoming irritated. "Fortunately, I've come with something better." He takes a step back towards the door, flourishing wildly with his hands. "The campers."  
To my astonishment, he opened the door, and thirty-some campers straggled in, hair a typhoon, some clutching their heads and moaning with hangovers; even a few in their pajamas. They came through the door like a miracle, and Thalia raised an eyebrow. She nodded her brisk approval as the campers struggled to their seats, collapsing at the desks.  
I wasn't sure how Percy had done it, but I made a mental note to watch the mysterious counselor. As the kids sat down at the tables, murmuring among themselves, Thalia and Percy resumed talking, each as furious as the next. Absentmindedly, I wondered how they worked; two completely alpha personalities where the camp only needed one.

* * *

"There are several steps to hand-to-hand combat," Percy said, his voice ringing out through the practice area.  
I was standing at a mat, looking at him dubiously. He strolled around the assigned partners, eyes critical; mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. "It is a common aspect of combat that people think that everything is physical. You must be aware of your surroundings. I don't care if you're a seven foot ox or a stallion built to run for the Kentucky Derby. Quite frankly, I care about what you can do with your stature. Every size has an advantage. It is up to you to find and exploit that advantage." Percy paused for effect. "Am I understood?"  
A chorus of half-hearted 'yeses' rang out through the practice arena. I still wasn't completely certain what Percy had done to completely command the other campers' attentions, but it was working remarkably well. The people in the boys' practice arena were slack-faced, smacking gum loudly, still, but they weren't ignoring Percy. Not that I blamed them, really. I had first pegged Thalia in all her black leather and spikes to be the threat, but now I wasn't so sure. She had certainly bested him in the fight, but I got the feeling that Percy hadn't really been trying- or, at least, hadn't shown off all that he could. It made me uneasy. I liked to be able to see people square-on.  
I shuffled my feet on the practice mat, staring down at the creases in the cracked material in fascination. The arena was something to be remarked upon. It was much bigger than any of the cabins or mess hall had been, and it was certainly impressive. The girls were practicing, just like us, in the arena next to us. My eyes flitted around the circular room, thinking about how it looked remarkably like a karate or jujitsu dojo. Everything about it was clean and polished, unlike the mess halls. The cabins had been new and neat, but not clean. There was a difference, I had learned. Wood shavings, while they may smell of new, were still a mess. Here, in the dojo, there were clean, glossy honey-blond floors, black practice mats (if a little battered) on the floor, lying between each pair of assigned partners like a foreboding message. The same black mats padded the circular, rounded walls before they cut off to the same honey blond wood. The top of the dojo was pointed like a dreidel, in a sort of carrot top. No windows; just us, clad in our normal clothes, and one very scary teacher lecturing on how to crush our opponent. I had never been to a summer camp, but I had a suspicion that they weren't quite like this one.  
Percy nodded, taking the heavy silence for a yes. "Alright. With that in mind, there are three things you need to have in hand-to-hand combat. One: exploit your advantages. Use whatever you have, may that be strong knuckles, muscles, size- anything, really. Two: Be aware of your surroundings. It's not going to matter if you're crushing one opponent completely if another jumps you from behind. Always be conscious of who is around you. And, finally, three: always size up your opponent. Judge his advantages. That way, you'll be better adjusted to deal with them." He studied all of us, sauntering around with a long, even lope, his gaze steely. "Questions?" At the stark, thick silence, Percy nodded, as if filing away this information in his brain. "Right, then." He scrunched up his face in thought. "All right, be honest. I'm not going to get you in trouble, I swear, I just want an ideal number here, so answer honestly. I want a show of hands for how many people in this room smoke."  
There were twenty-six boys in the room, all stationed at mats. As I watched in fascination, one boy put his hand up, and then another, and another, until at about eighteen hands were in the air. Percy whistled under his breath, the sound coming out in a low sound of astonishment. "Wow. That's… a lot of you."  
I wondered if Percy smoked. From what I saw about the handsome, tall, athletic man, I was tempted to opt towards no, for some reason. For one, he had been scolding Thalia since I had arrived at the camp, but for another, he just didn't seem like the kind of person who would be found up, high in a tree at thirteen years old, cupping a cigarette around their hands, eyes alert in fear lest they be caught. He seemed like the kind of guy who might drink every once in a while, but not smoke. I felt relatively certain of this.  
Percy took a deep breath. "Alright. Smokers, I'm not going to rat you out. And neither am I going to try and coax you into quitting, as I'm sure many other camp instructors have done. That's not what you're here for. I know firsthand that quitting is hard." Well, close enough, I thought to myself. He smoke-d. Past tense. Not smokes. "I would simply like to point out that a lot of physical activities are going to be a lot more difficult with the added toll smoking takes on your lungs. That's my final say on that- just a word to the wise."  
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Percy was all talk, much as he liked to deny it. He spouted off a lot of things about he hated propaganda, but in the end, he was a camp counselor. From what I had seen of Thalia, she might've been a little different. I wondered what the girls were doing this second- fighting already, probably. Thalia had said she liked to get things over with. I could picture her now, lips pursed in thought.  
"With that taken care of, I'm going to address a few other details. Today is Monday, obviously. Monday through Thursday we will be practicing on our own from seven am to five pm. Breakfast is from six to six thirty in the morning. Lunch is served in a fifteen-minute break from twelve to twelve-fifteen. Dinner is from six to six-thirty pm. You will be expected to give your full effort- if you do not, I am quite certain one of the lunch ladies would be more than willing to let you scrub and clean the dishes." I shuddered. I had seen the lunch ladies this morning- they were fat, old, wrinkled hags, skin liver-spotted with stringy white hair. They looked as if they were going to keel over any minute. "On Fridays, we will practice with the girls- same times; you will just be matched with a girl partner. Saturdays, you will all be called in for psychology. Not a group session, just a private one, with either Thalia or myself. It is part of our jobs as counselors; trust me, I'm not looking forward to it, either," Percy added hastily. "Lastly, on Sunday, it is your day of rest. You will be permitted to endorse yourselves in whatever activities you may choose- just let it be known that punishments will be doled out should there be any extreme illegal activity." He said this with a stern face.  
"For a more detailed schedule, I will specify what weekdays' practices are. Mondays and Tuesdays will be purely instructional. You will learn one specific skill each day. Wednesday will be pairing with a partner and practicing each technique on each other. Thursday will be basic combat, and Friday will obviously be basic combat as well." Percy's shoes, I noticed, clicked on the laminate floor.  
"Any questions?" Percy continued. He was met with silence. "Good." He nodded to himself. "Yes. Good." He walked around in a circle, coming to rest at the center of the room. "With the details sorted out, I would like you to direct your attention towards me. We will be beginning today's lesson."  
I could only sigh and ready my stance. There was no certainty as to what sort of hell this day would be, but I was certain that whatever it was, it would not be pretty.

* * *

I flopped down onto my bed with a groan.  
I hurt. Everywhere. My joints seemed to be creaking like the tin man from The Wizard of Oz, all squeaky and in need of oil. My muscles seemed to be screaming in protest, seizing up as if to say No more of whatever that was. In my fifteen years, I had never once been worked as hard. My mind had always been other places; up in flames or in the familiarity of gears and cogs. At this precise moment, my entire body was both physically and mentally battered down to a little stub of a candle, fighting to stay lit.  
You never realize how long eight hours is until you are faced with it. Time seemed to fly if you were chasing after your soccer ball in the park, the sun lighting the long, lush grass, but it also seemed to crawl along slowly at the pace of a slug. Today was one of the slug days. Percy worked us hard, and I could now see the meaning under the camp's name. Boot Camp. The worst part was the end, when Percy took a washcloth from the table on the right side of the room, calling, "I took it easy today, so you had better come back ready!"  
Easy. Easy. Even now, I had difficulty comprehending it. Easy is not something that takes such a physical toll on someone that they lose feeling in their legs. Easy is not something that drains someone so badly that they no longer have the strength to get up from their beds. Easy is not something that makes you nauseous at the thought of food. That was not easy. That was hard. Quite frankly, I wasn't entirely certain I was going to be able to make it through an entire summer of drills like that. In fact, I was probably going to die before I did.  
My mother used to say that nothing worth having comes easy. I wasn't entirely sure who that quote was from, but I found it true more than ever. If I was honest with myself, I had gotten into this situation. Everything in my life, since that one dry, August day, had been my fault. My life had changed a lot since I was eight years old. Now I was fifteen, lying on a bed in pain, partially paralyzed, wondering how I was going to make it to tomorrow. I smiled as I remembered my mother singing as she worked, usually something from some musical. She would sing songs from Annie, West Side Story, Grease- it didn't really matter. She had a good singing voice, unlike me. Once, when I was working with her in the machine shop, oiling all the clocks, I asked her if she had ever wanted to be anything other than a mechanic.  
She had smiled painfully. "Si, hijo," she had said, her voice sounding sad. "A long, long time ago. Now I am a mecanico. I work in the shop, making the machines go tick-tock again." She had turned back to her cloth with her oil rag, scrubbing it with vigor.  
"What did you want to be?" I had asked, my stubborn six-year old self refusing to give up. Now, I wished that I had. I could relate to setting out to be someone and ending up an entirely different person.  
She had blown a wayward black curl out of her face. "Ay, nino. It does not matter now. I am here with you, and your padre. I am not what I wanted to be- but I have something better."  
Still, I refused to give in. "What did you want to be, though?"  
My mother had sighed, slumping a bit. "When I was a little girl- a chica, just like cousin Ema- I saw the musica on the television. All the girls were so pretty, wearing those twirly dresses. They all looked like princessas." She had frowned slightly. "I was a silly girl. I wanted to be a singer; grow up to be muy famoso. I have you, now, chico. It does not matter anymore."  
I had watched her, my six-year old brain comprehending the fact that she was sad, but not quite knowing why. That's the way of little kids, after all. Knowing the 'what' but not the 'how' or 'why'. My mother might have become a famous singer one day, if she had not died. Now, I will never know.  
I thought back to the events of the day- of my days from now on, spent in a smelly dojo initially smelling of a strong-scented lemon pledge but eventually giving way to the stronger scent of body odor. Everything here seemed to be tainted, just like the lemon pledge, coated in a fine layer of black. The amount of secrets here was overpowering.  
As my eyes drooped, slowly coaxing me into sleep, I wished for a friend. I wished for my Abuela. I wished for Houston. I wished for Texas. But, most of all, more than anything else, I wished for my mother. They say you do not truly appreciate things until they are gone. That was true, with me, at least. But, as much as I wanted it to be false, my mother was dead. She was born from the Earth, and returned there, once more. Born from dirt and died as dirt. It is the way of the strange world.  
It was the end of my second day at Boot Camp.  
I was tired.  
I was sore.  
I was hungry.  
But most of all, I wanted a friend.  
I doubted I would ever get one.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that was the end of that chapter. Sorry that it was a little dull; I swear that things will start picking up the pace next chapter.**


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